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Was GAR responsible? Or were they taking responsibility for a bomb not their own? Had GAR inspired Connor Grant? Or did we have the wrong freaking freak in a cell in the sixth-floor jail?
I left the TV and walked toward the corner Rich and I had co-opted, equidistant from the entrance to the squad room and the window with its view of Bryant Street. Our desks faced each other, and Rich looked up when I slung my jacket over the back of my chair.
He was on the phone, but he said, “Hold on, please,” and put his hand over the mouthpiece.
“You okay?” he asked.
I shrugged, said, “Be right back,” and headed into the break room. When I looked up, Rich was standing with me at the coffeemaker, watching me pour a mug of mud with a shaky hand.
“What happened in there?” he asked.
“Typical dirtbag,” I told him. “He recanted his confession or whatever you call what he told me and Joe. Said I needed to clean out my ears. He didn’t do it, didn’t bomb anything, of course. And he lawyered up. The bastard.”
Conklin said, “You sure you want coffee?”
“I want something,” I said. “I’m going to run over to the hospital for a couple hours. Two of Joe’s brothers are just coming in from New York. I’m going to meet them there.”
“Stay as long as you want,” he said. “We can’t get into Grant’s place until after the bomb squad clears it.”
I took three sips of coffee, dumped the rest into the sink, and rinsed out the cup. I said, “Rich, what if I hadn’t seen Grant standing there on the sidewalk beaming at his masterpiece? We’d have less than nothing, and the Feds would be working this case.”
“True.”
“Is Grant having a good laugh at the SFPD? Or is he for real? I’d really like to know.”
“If he did it, we’ll nail him,” Conklin said. Then, “Linds, did you see the message from Claire? She wants to see you ASAP.”
“Did she say why?”
“Hell no.”
“Okay, then.”
I got my jacket and headed out.
CHAPTER 13
DR. CLAIRE WASHBURN is the city’s chief medical examiner and my closest friend. I needed to see her, too.
The most direct path from Homicide to the ME’s office is out the lobby’s rear entrance and a hundred yards down the breezeway toward Harriet Street. I was on total autopilot until I opened the double doors to the ME’s office.
I didn’t recognize the guy behind the reception desk. This wasn’t so unusual. On account of overexposure to death and no opportunity for advancement, Claire’s receptionists tended to turn over every couple of months of their own accord.
The new receptionist was middle-aged, male, wearing a jacket and tie. He had folded a sheet of paper into a nameplate and written GREGORY MARK PETERS.
I badged Gregory, introduced myself, and said, “Dr. Washburn asked to see me.”
There were about eight cops and as many civilians in the waiting room, all of them waiting to see Claire.
Gregory said, “She’s awfully busy right now, Sergeant. Why don’t you take a seat.”
I gave him a look that could bore through stone.
“Hit the buzzer,” I said.
He did it. I strong-armed the glass door, marched past Claire’s office, and went directly into the autopsy suite.
I found Claire gloved up, gowned, masked, and bloodied, leaning over a body on the autopsy table. She dropped her scalpel into a bowl, stripped off her gloves, and said to her assistant, “Bunny, I’m taking a five-minute break.”
